


man of his word

by whiplash



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 06:10:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3840025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Foggy at gunpoint, he doesn't really have a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	man of his word

His hair's a mess; damp with sweat on one side, crusty with drying blood on the other. Blood trickles down his chin as he speaks. The right shoulder hangs strangely low. He looks nothing at all like Matt Murdock. That's the good news. The bad is that he looks every part the lawless vigilante.

"I'm here. Now let the hostage go," Matt orders. Orders, as if there's not a gun pointing at his head. As if there's not another one digging into the soft flesh covering Foggy's ribs. Its very presence makes it hard to breathe, each shallow breath dragging back watercolor memories of childhood asthma and his mother's hand ghosting over his back.

"That could be arranged," Fisk says, pausing between words in that particular way of his. Then he smiles and Foggy's heart stutters in his chest. Across the room, Matt twitches before his jaw locks. Years ago, in a room which was warm and well-lit and in a world where the devil didn't leap from rooftop to rooftop, Foggy had warned him about that. _Keep that up and you'll ruin your teeth, he'd said. And where will you be without your pretty smile?_ Matt had laughed then. Foggy too.

"That was the agreement," Matt says, lifting his chin as he stares straight at Fisk. Or maybe he's not Matt. Maybe, even with the hood off and Foggy right there with him, he's still the devil of Hell's Kitchen. A fearless and terrifying stranger, controlling Matt's words and actions.

"And here I thought you were a man of your word," Matt mocks. Fisk's smile falters for a second, just long enough for Foggy to catch it. It's not a win, a detached part of him thinks. No, making that man lose face couldn’t be considered a win at all.

"Oh," Fisk says. "But I am. For example, I've made a promise to my friend here."

The man next to Fisk, the one that came into their office and gave him and Matt an offer too good to accept, smiles. If Fisk's smile is the oily trickle of darkness in the night, then this man's is the smile of little boys who wet their beds for far too long and make the neighborhood pets disappear. Foggy bites the insides of his mouth until he can taste blood.

"I promised him," Fisk continues, laying a meaty hand on his friend's shoulder, "that if I caught the devil alive, well... My friend has needs. All men do, of course. But his are special. More complicated than the average man's. He gets few chances to sate them. So I made him a promise. And now I intend to keep it."

The 'special needs' friend --despite it all, Foggy finds himself choking on blood-mixed spittle to keep from giggling -- glances, almost shyly, at his boss before the creepy smiles grows into something even worse. Something sincere, in the middle of all that polished blankness. Something hinting at a relationship beyond Fisk's indulgent fondness and Special Needs' obvious loyalty.

Foggy looks away. Looks down at the long shadows cast across the cement floor, down at the tiny drops of blood by Matt's feet and down at his own shoelaces. The left lace has frayed on one side. If he gets out of here alive, he’ll need to remember to change them.

xxx

When told to, Matt kneels.

It’s not a choice, he tells himself as expensive aftershave fills his nostrils and gloved fingers brush against the back of his head. Not really. Not when they have a gun pointed at Foggy. Not when he can taste the stench of Foggy’s fear in the air around him. Not when he could drown in the erratic lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub of his best friend’s heart.

He inhales. Exhales. Inhales again. Concentrates on the sound of Foggy’s heartbeat. It’s as familiar to him as his own and twice as dear. He fills himself to the very brim with it; focusing on nothing else until he can eventually tell the lub of the contractions apart from the dub of the heart’s chambers filling with blood. There’s a whooshing sound too. A heart murmur, he imagines. Pushing aside a distraction – a finger brushing against his lips, the taste of leather and the rustle of cloth – he wonders if it’s something Foggy should bring up at his next health check.

They’re both young still, sure, but Foggy’s always been a big guy and if there’s something wrong – if there’s something wrong and Matt does nothing about it, if it turns out to be something serious and Matt’s inactivity is what costs Foggy his life, if some day that dear heartbeat was to just stop… Matt’s not sure that he could live with that.

Suddenly, his head jerks forward. His concentration breaks, just a tiny crack in his armor but that’s all it takes. The world comes crashing back and he chokes. Chokes while he pants through his nose and gags at the tastes and stinks that meet him. Focus, Stick orders, palm striking across Matt’s face. Focus, boy. It had worked back then and the memory of it -- the red blossom of pain and the desperate desire to meet his mentor's expectations -- gives him the strength that he needs.

Foggy’s heartbeat. Foggy. Foggy. _**Foggy.**_

So familiar, and so very dear.

xxx

Foggy resolves not to watch.

Instead he stares down at that frayed shoelace, holding on as tight as he can to himself. He’s convinced that if he lets go, even for a second, he’ll shake apart. The gun digs harder into his flesh, the man holding it snapping at him to keep his fat, cowardly ass still. Foggy doesn’t correct him. Doesn’t tell the hired goon that it’s not fear alone that’s causing him to shake. No, it’s more than that. Worse than that.

Franklin Nelson’s furious.

For the first time he truly understands the wild, world-shattering rage that drives Matt out of his home at night. These men… he doesn’t want to see them behind bars, he wants to see them on the ground. Wants the reassuring weight of his baseball bat in his hand. Wants to show them that you don’t do this to people – not to anyone, but especially not to Foggy’s best friend.

That caveman blend of fury and hate - it’s not him. It’s never been him. But now it wakes in him, an ancient yet newborn thing clawing and tearing at him as he listens to the terrible thing that’s happening to Matt. It sounds ugly. Painful and wet. Forced. He squeezes his eyes shut even though it does nothing to keep the sounds out of his head. His jaw clenches. His fingernails dig deep into his palms.

Matt whines. So softly that Foggy can barely hear it. Yet somehow so loud that it shatters all his resolve. Unable to help himself, he looks.

xxx

Matt’s concentration keeps breaking. Stick would be so disappointed in him.

_Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub…_

Over and over again he tries to block out the world, and over and over again he’s brought back to himself. To the taste of flesh and his own bile-mixed saliva, to the stench of arousal and sweat, to his body’s biological response to the threat of suffocation. Gloved fingers pet his hair. He imagines them snapping, one by one, joint by joint. It’s the only way that he can keep himself still.

_Lub-dub, wosh, lub-dub…_

Fisk has long since left and most of the men with him. His smell still lingers though, sticking to his assistant like a second skin. Less of an audience, Matt supposes, but he can’t find it within himself to care. Not when Foggy’s there. Not when Foggy’s watching this happening to him. To him. Not just to Daredevil, but to Matt Murdock.

_Lub-dub…_

It makes it permanent, Matt realizes as he, dizzy from lack of oxygen, once again loses track of Foggy’s heartbeat. It makes it something that won’t just go away with dawn and a change of clothes. It makes it real.

Makes it all too real.

xxx

In the end, Foggy turns out to be instrumental in their escape.

It’s not intentional. For much too long he stands frozen, barely breathing. Even though the room’s all but silent – the only sound that of Special Need’s harsh breathing and Matt’s wet, choking gasps for air -- he can’t hear himself think. Disembodied describes it the best. As if he’s separated from his very self. In desperation he tries to wiggle his fingers but his hands feel numb. Like useless lumps of congealed meat.

Matt whines again. So Foggy, unwittingly, provides the distraction.

He pukes; thin, watery liquid which spews out of his mouth without any warning. It feels like his stomach’s turning itself inside out, acid burning his throat and his ear’s suddenly ringing. He feels lightheaded. And then he feels pain.

Later, he’ll put it all together. He’ll understand that when he puked it had splattered against his captor’s trousers and shoes. He’ll remember the disgusted yell and connect it with the fist which slammed against the side of his head. With the heavy boot that kicked against his side and belly, forcing all the air out of his lungs.

At that exact moment though, all he knows is that he needs to breathe. He sucks in air, lips tingling and the world a blurry haze around him. He hears yelling; voices raised in warning, anger, pain. Shots are fired and he curls tight around himself. He doesn’t want to die like this but realizes that there’s precious little that he can do to prevent it. He wonders if it will hurt. He wonders what happens next – not so much to himself as to his parents, to Karen, to Matt...

Then he’s pulled to his feet by impossibly strong hands. Someone speaks to him.

He can’t make out the words.

xxx

Foggy’s cold and clammy, his pulse as quick as a bird’s against Matt’s fingertips.

He smells awful, but underneath the vomit and the sweat Matt can still find hints of familiar scents: Foggy’s soap, Foggy’s toothpaste, Foggy’s fabric softener. He fights the urge to bury his face in the crook of Foggy’s neck and just inhale. Fights it as efficiently as he had Fisk’s goons. As efficiently as he’d taken down-

His mind shies away from the memory. He wipes away the blood from his chin. Turns his head to spit. The taste’s still there of course. It lingers in the dips and hollows of his mouth, the ridges of the hard palate and in the gum between his teeth. He imagines that he could swallow a bottle of Listerine, wash his mouth out with soap and rub his tongue down with mustard and the taste would still be there. He imagines it’ll never go away. Then he stops wasting time.

He’s a man with a mission. He’s getting Foggy out of here.

xxx

The world returns to Foggy in bits and pieces.

The heavy weight of the blanket draped over his shoulders. The damp heat of a washcloth dragging across his skin. A familiar voice murmuring hushed reassurances. He opens his eyes, blinking at the harsh light. He doesn’t recognize the room or the view out of the window. It looks like the kind of dingy hotel room you’d rent by the hour though. Smells like one too.

“Where are we?” he asks, groaning as he attempts to sit. He hurts. His mouth tastes like something crawled in there and died. Considering his surroundings, that might very well be true. His brain scrambles to make sense of past and present; he gathers shards of memories, ignoring how they cut and carve into him as he puzzles them together.

“Your heart rate’s speeding up,” Matt says. “Don’t worry. You’re safe now. I’ll make sure of that.”

Foggy’s not a total asshole, so he just nods in reply.

“How’s your… everything?” he asks, consciously slowing his breathing in an attempt to calm his racing heart. He knows nothing of meditation, but he’s watched more than his fair share of kung-fu movies and likes to imagine that he gets the gist of it. Though admittedly, as of late, he’s found himself more likely to switch to a nature documentary.

Matt steps out of the shadows. He’s dressed in street clothes now. Jeans too tight, sweatshirt too big. His hair’s wet and uncombed and he’s somehow managed to MacGyver himself an arm sling out of a pillow case.

“The floral pattern really suits you,” Foggy says, nodding to the sling even though Matt can’t see him.

“Brings out my eyes,” Matt agrees.

Unlike Foggy, he manages a smile. It looks grotesque on his bruised face but Foggy will never tell him that. Just like he’ll never tell him that things have changed now. That from now they’re playing by a different set of rules. And rule number one is that it’s no longer a case of Matt protecting them at any cost. (Any **damned** cost.)

No, from now on, it’s just as much about keeping Matt safe.

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno about this one. It's a real kink meme fill in that it requires the reader to just suspend disbelief and go with the flow. Also, it's really choppy and uneven. I might revisit it at some point to do a rewrite. Or try and find a beta-reader for this fandom :)


End file.
